Happenstance
by M C Pehrson
Summary: "To Boldly Go" Story #2: Romulans plot a bitter revenge against Spock.
1. Chapter 1

_Note: This story includes the character Desus from the novel "Black Fire" by Sonni Cooper, and refers to incidents in that book. It also features the female Romulan commander from the original Star Trek episode, "The Enterprise Incident". Though there are obvious differences between the original and alternate Trek timelines, I assume that the alternate characters would still experience many of the same situations._

 **Chapter One**

She lay in wait. A modest ship by Romulan standards, the _Nightwing_ carried only a small supply of short-range plasma torpedoes. Such vessels seldom traveled so far from home and never dared penetrate the Neutral Zone. But the _Nightwing_ had ventured all the way into Federation space, where she had held position until her ion trail dissipated, briefly cloaking whenever necessary to escape detection by Starfleet patrols. The majority of her small crew considered it tedious duty, but there were two aboard who relished the mission.

On the sensor panel of the _Nightwing's_ bridge, a blip appeared. The navigator restrained his excitement as he carefully studied his board for the speed, course, and configuration of the approaching object. Satisfied, he reported, "It comes!"

Behind him, the joint leaders of the expedition exchanged looks of quiet victory.

oooo

The Federation starship _Enterprise_ cut through space at regular patrol speed. Hunched in the bridge command chair, young Captain Kirk kept his eyes on the forward view screen with its star field display. Who knew what might be lurking out there? He felt edgy patrolling so near Romulan territory.

"Mister Spock," he said. "All clear?"

The half-Vulcan first officer peered into his sensor hood as he reported, "No trace of ion activity." Kirk was rubbing his chin thoughtfully when Spock straightened and added, "Of course, ion displacement is only an indication of recent traffic."

A working silence settled over the bridge. Kirk stood, stretched his legs, and wandered forward to Sulu's helm position.

"Captain!" Spock's voice came again, suddenly urgent. "We are being scanned…"

Sulu interrupted. "Romulan vessel uncloaking to port, ten thousand kilometers!"

Kirk whirled toward the screen. An enemy ship loomed chillingly amid the glitter of stars. "Shields! Red alert!"

Even through the organized chaos of battle stations, Kirk heard the buildup of a Romulan transport beam. He rushed toward a scintillating pillar on the upper bridge level and vaulted the railing. But in a drift of light, Spock was gone…

"Shields!" Kirk repeated, catching himself against the vacant science chair.

"Shields up, full power," came the belated response.

Kirk straightened as if the weight of command might drive him to the deck. He turned to see the Romulan vessel plunging toward the Neutral Zone as it cloaked, and see the outrage register on the faces of his crew. He could barely keep the anger from his own voice as he said, "They're through with us. Those bastards have what they came for."

There was no possibility of catching the Romulans in time, and firing on them could provoke a war. Knowing full well the futility of pursuit, Kirk nonetheless ordered, "Follow their ion trail, Mister Sulu. All speed!"

The helmsman snapped to his controls with precision, and the _Enterprise_ swept toward the Neutral Zone. Kirk came down beside him and placing his hands on the console, leaned forward. Eyes hard on the screen, he abandoned himself to the human illogic of wild, unfounded hope. Spock would surely disapprove.

"Captain."

Kirk knew what was coming.

"Captain," Sulu repeated quietly. "Sixty seconds to Neutral Zone."

Kirk's eyes traveled to the science station, where a junior officer was sinking dutifully into Spock's seat. Clenching his hands, he said, "Full stop."

Lieutenant Uhura's stricken voice rose from Communications. "Sir…two others reported missing. It's that Vulcan couple—Seven and T'Sel."

Since the destruction of their home world, a pair of Vulcan civilians had temporarily joined the ship's crew. Now they, too, had been plucked from the _Enterprise_.

oooo

There had been astonishment. A horrid prickling in mind and gut as the energy engulfed him. One helpless instant of realization before the transporter field locked rigidly into place.

Now Spock found himself staring down the heavy barrels of two Romulan blasters. Instinctively he went for a sidearm. He fumbled over the disheartening emptiness at his hip, then remembering, grew still. He had been plucked directly from the bridge of the _Enterprise_ —a prisoner for what short span remained of his life.

As if reinforcing the thought, a soldier barked, "Hands forward!"

Spock looked at his hostile captors and slowly extended his hands toward them. Noting other movements in the periphery of his vision, he glanced to his right and discovered T'Sel and Seven with their arms similarly outstretched. So he was not alone.

"My, my," came a mocking feminine voice. "How well behaved we are."

The guards stepped aside in a sweeping salute for their superior as she entered the room. Wearing the uniform of a sub-commander, the brown-haired woman came to stand before Spock in cool triumph. "Oh, yes. It is I, _Sub_ -commander Charvon. What pleasure to see your mask slipping, just a little. To find dismay in those proud Vulcan eyes."

Spock struggled to maintain his emotional control. "Sub-commander," he said levelly, "it was necessary for you to transport every Vulcan life reading. I now understand…that. But I would hope that your vengeance holds some measure of honor, and you will return the others unharmed."

Her mouth twisted. _"Honor!_ You dare speak of—" Choked with fury, she slashed the air. "Guards, bind them!"

The Romulans jumped to the task. Yanking arms backward into energy cuffs, they shoved their unresisting prisoners into a neat row.

"Easy," Charvon cautioned. "Do not damage them. They shall all have their uses."

Her eyes settled so significantly on Spock that he was compelled to look away.

"Lock them up," she ordered.

Spock felt a blaster at his spine, and began to walk.

oooo

Surely by now they were deep in Romulan territory. From the engines' pitch and vibration, Spock estimated their speed at warp three, far too casual a pace for any ship under pursuit. That was in no way surprising. It would make no difference if they were creeping along on impulse power. Starfleet vessels were forbidden, under any circumstance, to violate Romulan space. There would be no rescue…and the chances for a successful escape were vanishingly slim.

Nevertheless Spock sat in his cool, dim cell reviewing every logical possibility, and a few that were somewhat less than logical. His present circumstance did not encourage concentration. His nose itched, but there was very little he could do about it with his hands still secured behind him. And there was the increasingly urgent need to empty his bladder.

Leaning back against the cold metal bulkhead, he turned his thoughts to Sub-commander Charvon. Formerly Commander Charvon, Romulan flagship captain, until dealings with him robbed her of that position, and doubtless much more. There was no one in the Romulan Empire with so hard a case for personal revenge. Falling into her silken hands should have sealed his death sentence, but having survived thus far, he began to wonder about Charvon's intent. There were worse fates than execution awaiting Vulcans in Romulan territory, and her words increasingly seemed to lead in that direction.

Spock found himself faced with a difficult moral dilemma. If matters progressed as he suspected, it was only a matter of time before the sub-commander's lewd insinuations became physical fact. Should he resist any sexual advances, even to the point of inviting injury? Or should he cooperate, endure every humiliation, remaining alert to opportunities for escape? As logical as this last choice seemed, Spock sickened at the thought of actively pleasuring his captors…or being "pleasured" by them. There was a line that no Vulcan would cross willingly, and in the matter of his personal sexuality, he was very much a Vulcan. That part of him belonged to Nyota Uhura, and no other. And so it was decided. If necessary he would risk angering the Romulans rather than submit to their degrading notions of entertainment.

With regret, Spock considered Seven and T'Sel—fresh from a Vulcan space-liner firm that was no longer in existence—innocents drawn into this horror through no fault of their own. Due to his name, young Seven was the source of much amusement among their human shipmates. They would think it ironic that a man thus named would find himself trapped in this miserable situation. Even Jim Kirk would call it "bad luck".

The cell door clicked and quietly slid open. Startled by the identity of his visitor, Spock rose and said, "Desus!"

The tall, handsome Romulan came one step nearer, his features stony.

"I thought you dead," Spock whispered into the silence.

Desus gave a harsh, bitter laugh. "You mean you _hoped_. No, Spock, I did not unsheathe my honor blade. Only a fool would choose death while his enemy still lives." His voice hardened to steel. _"_ Brother! _"_

With an effort, Spock met the anger in those dark Romulan eyes. Once, Desus had proved a convenient opening into the world of piracy, facilitating Spock's undercover assignment. But through shared hardships and pleasures, imprisonment and adventures, the Romulan had come to mean something more—something Spock had dared not acknowledge then…or now. Long ago, he had chosen his path, wherever it might lead.

Spock gazed straight ahead and declared, "I upheld my oath to Starfleet."

A battle-hardened fist struck hard across his jaw, knocking him to the deck. Spock landed with a grunt and drew up his knees. As the Romulan moved in, he braced for a beating, but Desus only stared down at him, apparently satisfied for now by the ooze of green blood at his mouth.

"Traitorous mongrel!" spat Desus. "Oh, how I have looked forward to this day. I will see you suffer as I have suffered, and in the end you will pay with your life!"

After the cell door slammed shut, Spock awkwardly hoisted himself onto the bench. Closing his eyes, he gathered the pain into himself, embracing it like a friend until it shut out every thought.

oooo

By the time Spock's hands were finally freed, the blood on his face had dried. Alone in the cell, he fingered his swollen jaw as he re-evaluated the human concept of luck. Before embarking on a dangerous mission, Nyota and others sometimes wished him "good luck". Obviously such wishes had no effect on a mission's outcome, but to date he _had_ survived. Would he be so "fortunate" this time? There was a chance that he might exert some influence over Sub-commander Charvon, but Desus was another matter.

Spock was lying on his bench when Charvon entered the cell, accompanied by an armed guard. He sat up. At the sight of his injury, shock and anger crossed her face. Striding forward, she grasped his chin and eyeing the tender lump, demanded, "Who did this to you?"

When Spock failed to reply promptly, she shoved him with such force that his head struck the bulkhead behind him. "You will answer when I speak to you!"

"It was Sub-commander Desus," Spock revealed.

Charvon's slim eyebrow arched with displeasure, but she quickly composed herself and went on to another matter. "Every time food has been brought to you, you refuse it. Why are you not eating? The food is no different from that we once shared in my cabin. I understand your dietary preferences and have ordered your meals accordingly. Are you ill…or merely stubborn?"

Spock vividly recalled his sojourn in Commander Charvon's quarters, where he had been welcomed as a guest, served fine food and drink by the Romulan's own hand. That same lovely hand had joined his in silent, stimulating exchange…and later slapped him for his betrayal.

Now her dark eyes flashed with sudden insight. "So, my obstinate Vulcan. Do you think you can escape the inevitable by starving yourself? Whether or not the food is drugged, you _will_ eat." She started for the door, but turned toward him with a shrewd smile. "There are far less agreeable ways of administering drugs."

Then she was gone and the door slid shut, leaving Spock in welcome solitude. He realized that his self-imposed fast was only a delaying tactic, but would gladly exchange hunger for even one extra moment of rationality. Sinking into a meditative trance, he prepared for the coming ordeal.

oooo

A pair of blue ales were poured and waiting when Desus entered Charvon's feminine domain. He helped himself to the bracing liquor, for he would need it. Taking a seat, he drank in silence, awaiting the inevitable.

At last Charvon said, "Desus, on one of the prisoners' faces there is an ugly bruise."

"You mean Spock," Desus said impatiently. "No doubt he whined about it."

"Did you strike him?"

"Yes, and with great pleasure! Does that upset you, Co-commander?"

Charvon finished her ale and shrugged as if it were of no consequence. "Spock is a conniving, unscrupulous liar. He betrayed us both. Our common grudge united us for this mission and has brought us splendid success. Let us not fight over him now. We both want the same thing—revenge."

"His execution as ordered by the Praetor. Or…" Desus asked slowly, "am I mistaken?"

She set down her glass. "Death…is so brief a punishment. So final, so…unimaginative. There are those in power who favor a more lingering fate for our halfling."

Desus stiffened. "You among them?"

"Myself, foremost among them." Charvon smiled. "I'm not without a certain influence, even now. I arranged this mission, did I not?"

"Say it, then." But he already knew what was coming.

The smile widened. "Very well. Spock is mine…until I tire of him. Don't look so scandalized, Desus. The purebreds will be offered for ransom, as we planned. With only 10,000 Vulcan survivors, each one is precious now."

Desus could barely contain his disgust. "Chattel! You knew from the outset, yet you permitted me to believe that Spock would face execution!"

"Calm yourself, Desus. I realize you dislike the practice, but if you truly want retribution, what better way than pleasure bondage? The image is rather droll, you must admit. Proud Spock as chattel. Just think what Federation secrets that mind holds—secrets we might learn, given time…and proper persuasion."

"At the price of honor? You sicken me!"

"Then you haven't the stomach for revenge. Spock belongs to me. Keep your hands off him."

oooo

The drop to sub-warp roused Spock from a light, troubled sleep. Moments later, the _Nightwing_ shuddered and dipped in the unpredictable spasms of atmospheric turbulence. Planetfall. The journey was at an end. Soon the ship settled to the ground with that sudden stillness so strange to veteran space travelers. Then came the tramp of boots.

Spock's cell door sprang open, and two soldiers jerked his arms into cuffs with the brutal efficiency of long practice. They herded him at blaster point to a gangplank that angled from the craft's belly. An icy draft blew up into Spock's face and he briefly hesitated, but the guards shoved him ahead. He stumbled down the ramp to firm ground, where he stopped in the wailing wind to appraise his harsh new surroundings. Here was a bleak, inhospitable world. A dim, desolate plain stretched from horizon to horizon. Except for a few hardy grasses, the gale-torn valley floor seemed devoid of plant and animal life.

Charvon appeared at his side. "Does it disturb you?"

Spock drew a deep, cold breath and exhaled forcefully, finding a certain comfort in the frosty cloud this produced. The laws of science could not be reordered by any empire, however ruthless. "This is not Romulus," he observed.

"Nor Remus." She dismissed the guards. Walking the stony ground beside Spock, she explained, "This is Hellguard. A bit dismal and chilly for some, but I enjoy its solitude, its challenges…and certain freedoms one can find only here. It is my retreat. Everything you see from this point is mine."

Her eyes came to rest meaningfully on him. Word of this colony planet had reached Vulcan before its destruction. There was talk of half-caste children surviving like animals in city streets—living by-products of Romulan 'freedom'. If this was in fact Hellguard, they were in the Neutral Zone, not Romulan space.

"Come with me," she ordered.

As they rounded the _Nightwing_ , he saw a sturdy house nestled in a brave scattering of bent trees. From a nearby stockpile, people were transferring supplies to the ship. T'Sel and Seven were among the work force. Relieved to find his fellow prisoners well, Spock veered toward the Vulcans, but Charvon called out sharply, "No! This way!"

He followed her into the house. Its cream-colored interior walls were hung with artistic tapestries, and the furnishings showed similar evidence of good taste. The warmth of a great glowing heater drew him. Standing before it, he speculated on his captor's motive in bringing him to this place alone…and to all appearances, unguarded.

Perhaps anticipating his thoughts, Charvon revealed, "Here we have the illusion of privacy. But it is only an illusion." With a wave, she indicated a nearby door. "At the least signal from me, soldiers will enter…armed and ready. I do not believe you are a fool," she finished in a deceptively gentle voice. "Here. Let me release your hands."

He gave her his back and stood still as she unlocked the energy cuffs.

"Now look at me, Spock."

He turned. The glow of the heater cast her face in harsh shadow and glittered coldly from her eyes. Murder crossed his mind…and was rejected. Nerve pinch. Those vulnerable pressure points at her pale neck…so very near. His fingers twitched in readiness.

Abruptly Charvon glided out of reach. Relaxing into a chair, she propped her feet on a small embroidered hassock. "On the table to your left there are clothes," she said. "Change into them."

For a moment Spock pretended that he had not heard.

"…or shall I demonstrate my paralysis field and dress you myself?"

Now he noticed the controller at her fingertips, and the cool amusement in her eyes.

"Here?" he said through his teeth.

"Yes. Here and now. Strip down completely."

The garments were of Romulan styling and obviously quite expensive. Resisting an urge to hurry, Spock moved as leisurely as if he were alone in his cabin aboard the _Enterprise_. When he was fully clothed in iridescent black, Aurelian rose and inspected him, admiring the effect.

She nodded with satisfaction. "It suits you. Yes. It will do nicely."

"Then I shall wear it for my execution," Spock said.

She picked up the carefully folded Starfleet uniform and threw it onto the blazing heater elements, watching Spock's face as flames consumed those vestiges of his former life. Then with finality she said, "There will be no execution." Her lips stirred into a taut smile. "I have aroused your emotions, Spock. If thoughts were weapons, I would be dead now. Admit it."

He stared silently at the charred remnants.

"Ah," she laughed, "once more, the unspoken truth." Circling him, she fingered the rich Romulan fabric. Her hand drifted down the rigid length of his back. "Arrogant Vulcan," she whispered at his ear. "You will burn for my touch…"

As Spock tipped his head to avoid her breath, Charvon's delicately arched brow climbed. Continuing around, she met the black threat in his eyes and spoke a velvet warning. "Remain absolutely still and listen, proud one. Think. Have I harmed you? If you are offended by my gentle attention, how will you bear the men if I unleash them?"

He sensed a hostile presence lurking behind the inner door and—for now—saw no choice but to comply.

oooo

Mealtime arrived. Spock sat opposite the sub-commander at a small table set for two. She poured wine and filled his plate as one would for a small child. He looked at the food. Not the usual ship's fare; this was specially prepared, as if in a fine restaurant. Having fasted, he was hungry and thirsty, but it was impossible to know if the food contained drugs.

"This has gone far enough," Charvon said in annoyance. "Eat!"

Spock kept his eyes downcast, anticipating a blow. When her palm whipped out and slapped the table, he flinched as if she had struck him. That amused her.

"How very difficult this must be for you," she said with sarcasm. "Ambassador Sarek's pampered son, Captain Kirk's darling. So accustomed to being in charge, and now not knowing one moment to the next—afraid even to take a bite of food." She paused, and her eyes narrowed with determination. "But you _will_ take nourishment, Spock. Either feed yourself now, or I will have it shoved down your stubborn throat. _Decide!"_

By some unseen signal, the inner door burst open. Three Romulan men strode to the table, saluted smartly, and stood at attention. Two of them were heavily armed. Charvon pointed at the third—a slender, cruel-looking fellow holding a coil of tubing. "This is Torses, ship's healer."

Nodding at Spock, Torses smiled thinly and flexed the tube. After a moment, Spock took a morsel of food into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. Then another. His plate was half empty when the sub-commander sent away her enforcement squad. They finished the meal in privacy.

After the dishes were set aside, Charvon settled back with an air of contentment and said, "Please me, Spock, and I will treat you well enough. Anger me, and you will suffer. Not quite the choice I once offered you, but simple enough." Reaching inside her tunic, she drew out a smooth leather pouch and dropped its contents into her palm.

Spock focused on the sturdy metallic links, and the breath froze in his lungs. He sat numbly as she rose and locked the chain around his neck—a bitterly cold symbol of Romulan enslavement.

"You are chattel," she pronounced. "Mine. From dawn to dawn, now and forever." Leaning over him possessively, she fondled his neck and shoulders, slipping a hand under his shirt to the masculine growth of chest hair. "Mine," she whispered.

Spock closed his eyes. Sickness swept through him in dizzy waves and his heart slammed out of control. _Had he been drugged? Was this how it would happen?_ Gripping the table's edge, he wrestled the horror threatening to overwhelm his mind.

Gradually the terror receded. _No. It was not happening…yet._ The Romulan's provocative behavior aroused only a deep sense of revulsion, a simple emotion that he could control. Considering how he might use her nearness to his advantage, Spock raised his head and turned in his seat toward her. He placed his fingers lightly on her arm and waited in silence for her approval. To his relief, she withdrew her hand from his shirt.

Now she touched his cheek. "So it is not so terrible a thing after all, my Vulcan." And bending lower, she whispered, "my halfling." And she asked, "Was there a woman in your life? Forget her. Your planet is gone. Your people are decimated. Why not mingle your seed with a Romulan? Are we not cousins under the skin?"

Spock's fingers tensed imperceptibly, then relaxed again, drifting upward in a consciously seductive manner. With the tenderness of a caress, they found the rise joining shoulder to neck and settled over the nerve junctures. The thought formed in his mind…

And as if she had heard it, Charvon darted swiftly aside, leaving his hand dangling impotently. The Romulan men rushed back into the room. Prepared for a fight, Spock went to his feet, and there followed a brief tussle. Once Spock was securely held, Charvon loosed the full heat of her fury.

She caught hold of his slave chain and twisted it savagely. "Fool! I could choke the life from you!"

The chain tightened yet again, cutting off Spock's breath completely. There was no escaping the suffocation. _This is the end,_ he thought as his consciousness began to fade.

Then slowly, slowly, the chain eased and air rushed into his starved lungs. Through a greenish haze he saw the sub-commander's angry face.

"No, I will not kill you," she said with contempt. "Such a death would be far too swift…and give me such brief satisfaction. You Vulcans pride yourselves on the stoic endurance of pain…but you are not entirely Vulcan. Let us see how your human half responds to a little punishment." Without taking her gaze from him, she ordered, "Torses, dislocate his fingers!"

Though Spock strained against the wall of muscle, his right hand was firmly seized. Then, with excruciating care, the healer pried his thumb backward in a wrench of agony that demanded all Spock's concentration. He ceased struggling. Gritting his teeth, he focused on a small oval knot in a ceiling beam—one tiny island of sanity. There was laughter, a wrenching of ligaments…and the knuckle joint popped.

Pain was a matter of the mind. Sweat beaded his brow as the forefinger received similar attention. He caught his lip between his teeth and refused to acknowledge the nauseating snap of another joint separation.

Torses gripped the middle finger.

"Enough." Charvon's single word ended the ordeal.

The torture squad marched out. Spock's mouth tasted of bile as he lowered his twisted, throbbing fingers to his side.

Charvon looked upon him without sympathy. "Let us hope this puts an end to your sneaking Vulcan ways. For your sake, my sweet."

"You are cruel," Spock said.

"Perhaps you made me so. The fruits of betrayal are bitter, and now you will live to savor that bitterness. Once, I whispered my calling name in your ear. Now you will call me 'Master'. Once I offered you everything—pleasure, power, wealth. Together we would have set the Empire aflame." Her voice became caustic. "Now, you have nothing. You _are_ nothing. Surely that is a fact that your great intellect can grasp. Be logical, Spock. Accept your fate."

oooo

Though twin suns had climbed to their zenith, they shed little warmth over the land. A dark band of clouds was rushing forward on a merciless wind. It smelled of rain as Spock followed his "master" to the loading area. Shivering, he tucked his painful, disjointed fingers out of sight, and wondered if he would eventually receive medical aid or be left to treat himself. For now, Charvon clearly intended to display her new possession.

As they approached the work site, first one laborer, then another glanced up, their eyes drawn to the bright symbol of bondage at Spock's neck. In the buzz of murmured comments and sniggers, T'Sel and Seven stopped to stare in ill-concealed dismay.

Desus separated from the group and joined his co-commander. "Great gods," he groaned, "must you parade him? Let Spock dirty those pampered hands. Put him to work with the others."

Casually she pulled Spock's swollen, discolored hand into view. "He has an injury."

"I see." Desus lifted an eyebrow. He briefly searched the impassive Vulcan face before turning to Charvon, all military business. "A problem has developed with Communications. I suggest we delay until morning to effect repairs."

Now it was Charvon's turn to study her co-commander. After a moment she shrugged. "Then stay we must. There is, after all, no hurry." Her attention moved to Spock and lingered there. "Come. Your hand needs attention."

oooo

Torses had inflicted Spock's injury, and though he was now under orders to reverse the damage, his barbaric technique was clearly motivated more by sadism than any desire to heal. A gasp nearly escaped Spock as the Romulan doctor squeezed and yanked his thumb joint into alignment. All through the procedure, Spock found himself thinking rather wistfully of Doctor McCoy with his tart remarks, bothersome scanners, and spray hypos.

"Badly swollen," Torses smirked.

Moving to the next finger, he tugged at the knuckle for several agonizing moments until a snap was heard. Then apparently pleased, he surveyed his work and gave the swollen fingers one last excruciating wiggle before bandaging them.

Spock returned to his shipboard cell drained and discouraged. Stretching out on the hard metal bench, he closed his eyes and emptied his mind of the pain, the fear, the ugliness. But he could not relax completely. The chain collar lay with its fused lock at his throat, reminding him of the day's many indignities and the ultimate shame yet to come—perhaps tonight, perhaps in the next hour. However Charvon might use him, he must not allow her to corrupt his lifelong ideals of disciplined thought. Bitterly, Spock realized that this might be the only help he could offer Seven and T'Sel: his example.

He could still feel the shock of his fellow Vulcans, the heat of their dark eyes boring into him. But making use of the precious solitude, he slowly quieted his mind, retreating to that inviolate space within.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Hellguard's pale suns slipped below the horizon, and darkness descended under a heavy blanket of clouds. The storm had begun. Icy rain pelted the sentries huddled by Charvon's house.

Inside the structure, Spock sat staring helplessly at the heater while Charvon readied a spray hypo. Though her paralysis field held him immobile, his heart was slamming wildly. In the corner of his vision, he saw her approaching, the hypo glittering like an evil stinger. There was no way to plead for mercy, even had it occurred to him. She would do as she pleased. She would use her paralysis field and his drug-induced lust to manipulate him. And Spock knew he would succumb…just as nobler Vulcans before him had succumbed, to their own disgrace and the disgrace of their families.

Charvon's filmy gown, blue as Earth's summer sky, fluttered gracefully with each step. Standing over him, she laid one soft, possessive hand upon his face. She ran her fingertips over his lips, warming them on his breath, and he could not help but shudder in disgust.

"My righteous Vulcan," she said gently. "It is senseless to resist."

Spock struggled to focus his mind. Soon the insidious drug would be scorching a path through his veins, burning him from the inside out. But for the moment he could still think logically, and his thoughts came in a rush.

Surely, at such a time as this, even a Romulan would desire complete privacy. No one among her crew would be watching. The revealing dress she wore could not possibly hide a signaling device. There might never be a better chance for escape.

He forced himself into a trancelike state. Then working upon her Romulan conceit, he projected a single idea. _There was no need for drugs between them. Was she not a desirable woman? She had seen him shudder at her touch. Beneath his impassive exterior, his Vulcan blood already burned for her._

Bending low, she murmured, "You want me badly, don't you?"

As he let the thought linger in her mind, she slowly set the unused hypo on a table beside him. _Yes,_ he encouraged her, _it is much better this way. Willingly. He saw the benefit of cooperating fully. It was more logical to invite pleasure than to invite pain._

Now the stasis controller was in her hand. Suddenly the field shut down. A thrill of freedom made it difficult for Spock to maintain his hold on her mind, but it was not over yet. He must play out this degrading charade to the very end.

Rising from the chair, he turned and met the desire in her eyes. Working to conceal his distaste, he slowly closed the space between them. He could not risk the mental foreplay common to Vulcan and Romulan lovers. Instead, he embraced her gently and pressed his face into her hair.

"Di'an," he said, using her calling name, "thank-you for allowing me at least some dignity."

She trembled, yet kept her grip on the controller.

Spock caressed her smooth, bare shoulders and she clung to him, mouthing the skin at his throat. He tipped her head back and bent to meet her lips. The kiss was never realized. With a swipe of his arm, he batted the stasis control across the room. Her breath rushed out in a startled grunt.

Struggling impotently in his arms, she snarled, "Harm me and you will wish you were dead!"

For one terrible instant he considered silencing her permanently, then the undamaged fingers of his left hand chopped her nerve juncture as if that alone might send her packing to hell.

Her body slumped.

Spock lowered her to the floor and as he drew a deep breath, a creaking sound startled him. He whirled, but the room was empty. Yet for how long? He must find a weapon and attempt to take control of the Romulan ship.

A guard was dozing by the back entry. Spock felled him easily. Pleased with his success, he grabbed a rain cape off a hook and wrapped himself against the downpour. Then he seized the soldier's blaster and headed out into the storm. Avoiding a sentry stationed on the front porch, he cut a wide circle, then swung toward the _Nightwing_ on its farthest side. There he crouched behind a boulder to reconnoiter. So far, no alarm had been raised. The soggy pair of soldiers lounging against the illuminated gangplank seemed more interested in talking than patrolling. Obviously the Romulans felt secure here. What had begun as an act of desperation, began to hold some hope of success.

Silently Spock crept forward and slipped into the shadows beneath the gangplank. Now he could hear snatches of conversation, quiet Romulan words interspersed with laughter. Like a prowling le-matya, he moved up behind the guards. Since their bulky coats would interfere with a nerve pinch, he swung the blaster's stock against a Romulan head. As the man collapsed, the second guard turned and took aim, but Spock kicked the weapon from his hands and quickly dispatched him in the same way.

Spock's heart thudded as he stood over his fallen enemies. The rain was loud on the metal skin of the _Nightwing_ , but a telltale sound alerted him. Before he could react, the blaster's barrel was ripped from his hands. He turned to find Desus on the rain-slick gangplank, brandishing the weapon like a prize.

Desus smiled with wry pleasure. "Well, well. One half-drowned Vulcan clawing his way aboard ship. How did you evade your doting mistress? Was this not to be a night of ecstasy?"

Spock uttered a Vulcan curse, but quickly realized there might be some benefit in letting Desus believe he had been drugged. The damp cold made it easy to feign a shiver. He lowered his gaze, as if ashamed.

Desus said, "She will be on the hunt for your miserable skin…that is, if you have not killed her."

Spock shook his head. "She will revive."

"A pity. I was on my way to snatch you from her playful claws and deliver you to a noble, fitting justice—a man's justice." He studied Spock's face. "Your little escapade has made matters that much easier, though by the look of you, it did not come soon enough." Sighing, he said, "What a prodigious waste, old friend. I saved your ass once before, and now again, only to throw you to the Praetor's overfed dogs. The bounty on your devious head will buy _Nightwing_ a good many repairs." Sadly he added, "There was a time when…when I dared dream a far different fate for you…for us. Piracy suited you."

Chilly rainwater trickled down Spock's neck and he let himself shiver harder. The Romulan's words reminded him of better days, when a friendship between them had indeed seemed possible. "I…was not without a dream or two of my own," he admitted. "We did work well together."

The Romulan's eyebrow lifted and his mouth stirred. "When Charvon revealed her plans for you, I reacted with anger. I never thought of you as a lapdog. It was the bounty I was after…and revenge." A sharp gust of rain showered his face. Wiping at the wetness, he blinked. "Let's go aboard ship before we both freeze."

Spock preceded him up the gangplank.

Inside, Desus stopped to speak with the shipboard sentries. "Our guards seem to have fallen asleep. Haul them in, quickly, and secure for liftoff. Co-commander Charvon will remain on Hellguard for now."

The soldiers hurriedly obeyed. Desus contacted his flight crew by intercom before guiding Spock along a narrow corridor, into the warm depths of the ship. The Romulan stopped beside a door, holding the blaster between them as he studied Spock's face again. Then he ushered Spock into a private cabin.

As the door closed behind them, Desus confronted his prisoner, weapon firmly in hand. "Now that you have tasted Charvon's bitter ale, I am inclined to offer you drink of another sort. As you said, we once worked well together. Why not turn from the Federation and cast your lot with me?" His smile held a note of sympathy. "Your comrades have abandoned you. Think of all that a pirate's life can offer. Just now, you are badly in need of a woman. Just say the word—renounce your precious oath to Starfleet—and I will summon one for you."

"T'Sel?" Spock said, feigning interest.

Desus laughed. "So you have eyes for the little Vulcan. Renounce your oath and she is yours."

Spock pretended to consider. "Such a renunciation would demand a clear mind. Desus, I am hardly in any condition to…"

Relenting, Desus reached for the intercom. "Very well. I will have her brought here to my cabin, so you can enjoy her in comfort. Perhaps she will serve to stir up your pirating blood."

Spock paced the room until Ensign T'Sel arrived. Her dark eyes widened as he moved inappropriately near and actually touched a lock of her hair with his bandaged fingers. But the process also brought him closer to Desus.

Amused, Desus told her, "Your friend has business with you. If you will excuse me…"

Spock hurled himself at the blaster. The unexpected move knocked Desus off-balance, then the heel of Spock's hand struck his chin, stunning him. T'Sel seized the fallen blaster, and Desus lay blinking up the barrel of his own weapon. His face contorted with rage.

"I am taking command of the _Nightwing_ ," Spock declared. "Order your crew to surrender peacefully."

Desus snorted. "You command nothing! In your state, my soldiers will take one look at you and burst out laughing."

"I urge you to cooperate," Spock said levelly.

The Romulan answered with contemptuous silence.

"Please yourself." Spock glanced at T'Sel and ordered, "Stun him."

T'Sel checked the weapon's setting. Pressing the trigger, a bolt of light whipped across the room and settled Desus into sleep. There was no time to waste—not with a ship full of hostile soldiers. Spock took the blaster, opened the cabin door, and found the corridor empty. With preparations for departure underway, the crew would likely be at their posts. Together with T'Sel, he stepped out and moved silently in search of the brig. They encountered no one. Near the cellblock, he surprised a solitary Romulan with a nerve pinch, which yielded a second blaster. Hurriedly Spock released Seven from a cell. Reunited, the three Vulcans stole over the ship's length, taking prisoners along the way. When at last Spock re-entered Desus' cabin, he found the sub-commander stirring like a sleepy, disgruntled sehlat.

Spock informed him, "Your crew is now housed in the brig…and they are not laughing."

Rising unsteadily from the deck, Desus glowered. "Well done, Spock. Will you kill us now? Or return your prizes to the Federation and advance your career?"

The words stung. "You know me better than that, Desus."

The Romulan looked at him long and hard. "Does anyone really know you?"

oooo

They were fourteen in all—ominously silent, glaring bitterly at the three lone Vulcans who had bested them. Even as Charvon and Desus had kept their grudges fresh, so too would these others. They had become more than enemies.

As the last Romulan to file down the gangplank, Desus looked up at Spock and darkly promised, "Tomorrow, brother, you will kneel at my feet and learn the Romulan meaning of wrath." His words seemed to echo as Spock raised the gangplank and secured it.

Seven said, "You have done it."

Spock cast him a glance, then briskly strode toward the bridge with the Vulcans trailing. "Before you congratulate me, consider this. We must now operate an alien craft normally manned by eighteen while navigating through hostile space, evading enemy attack for unknown hours. I would say that at this point we have only begun."

As she walked, T'Sel eyed Spock's Romulan clothing and slave collar. "We are free, sir. And I, for one, prefer an honorable death to captivity."

Spock slowed and looked at her. T'Sel's large eyes and finely chiseled features made a livid bruise on her cheekbone particularly despicable. Whose brutish hand had struck her? What else might the Romulans have done? Gently he said, "With luck…we may yet escape both death and captivity."

"Luck?" T'Sel questioned, but he gave no reply.

In the control cabin, Spock quickly surveyed the broad panels of alien instruments. He settled into the helm chair and studied a barrage of data fed to him by the ship's computer—Romulan script with which he was less than fluent. By trial and error, he managed to initiate liftoff. The _Nightwing_ blazed upward through the storm, and still higher, escaping Hellguard's atmosphere with a final bone-rattling vibration. He then set the ship on course for Federation space and engaged warp drive before instructing T'Sel on the alien readouts. Relinquishing the seat to her, he began to consolidate the ship's primary functions into a more manageable package. When necessary, Seven became his hands, breaking and splicing delicate circuits.

"That will suffice," Spock finally told him. "Now, for Communications." He remembered Desus informing Charvon of a problem in that area—most likely a delaying tactic giving Desus time to actuate his own plans for Spock.

The Communications board had been partially dismantled. They were hard at work when T'Sel's voice drew Spock and Seven out of the tangle. "Mister Spock, ships are approaching."

On the scanner panel, two blips showed yellow. As Spock reached T'Sel's side, a third blip appeared.

"Another vessel," she said. A hint of a frown drew her slanted brows together. "All Romulan."

"Well beyond weapons range," Spock observed, "but they are gaining." Grimly he set the _Nightwing_ on maximum warp.

oooo

They were eating from Romulan ration packs when the acrid scent of overheated circuitry spread through the bridge. Spock tore open panels and inspected his grafts. Peering into the smoke, he concluded, "We must disengage the warp drive."

 _"What?"_ Seven exclaimed at his side.

T'Sel swiveled her chair. "But sir…"

Spock addressed his civilian crew. "We must drop to impulse power in order to make repairs, or risk losing warp at a less convenient moment. We will meet the enemy with shields and weapons at full power. With clear thinking, we have a chance of success."

There was silence.

"At your command," replied Seven, and T'Sel turned wordlessly to her station.

The stratagem took the Romulans by surprise. Hours of tedious pursuit had dulled them—constant speed, distance, course—every reading unvaried. Then, sudden chaos as the _Nightwing_ dropped out of warp. Weapons ripped into unprotected Romulan hulls—devastating strikes from a craft that had been far ahead of them one instant earlier. With scarcely time to curse, crippled shields flew up. Two ships swung back to hunt their attacker in normal space. The third ship exploded.

Aboard _Nightwing_ , the Vulcans concentrated on their individual tasks. T'Sel's attention darted from viewscreen to instruments as she maneuvered to fire once again on the disoriented Romulans. Wedged at her feet, Spock and Seven worked deep in the alien circuitry.

A strike grazed _Nightwing_ to starboard. The ship lurched. Sparks showered Spock's arms as he jerked clear of a power surge.

"Injuries?" T'Sel asked, eyes on her readouts.

"None," Spock reported, and delved back into the repairs.

T'Sel locked onto a vessel and fired another torpedo from their dwindling supply. A second fighter came into range. A plasma barrage streaked toward _Nightwing_ and impacted with a blast that slammed T'Sel against the instrument panel. With a patch in place, Spock scrambled up, lowered the dazed Vulcan to the deck, and took over at helm. The ship was tumbling, but he managed to right her just as the Romulans cut across _Nightwing's_ bow, filling the viewscreen. Spock fired into the target. The well-placed torpedo struck hard, and the enemy ship spun off, dead in space.

Spock reengaged warp drive at full power, then rose from the helm to find Seven bending over T'Sel. Her eyes fluttered open. Seven gently helped his bondmate to her feet and she stood at his side, looking shaken but functional. The couple returned to their duties.

They were nearing Federation space when T'Sel reported, "The _Enterprise_! She is keeping station just outside the Neutral Zone, but..." Her tone changed. "Scanners reveal two Romulan ships attempting to intercept us."

Spock rose from the Communications console where Seven was still helping trace the damage. His bandaged hand throbbed from overuse.

"Time to our destination," he requested.

"Twelve minutes, fourteen seconds." T'Sel stopped to calculate. "The Romulans will not be able to overtake us. Surely they will not enter Federation space?"

Spock suspected that the determined Romulans would pursue them to the end of the galaxy. Grimly he surveyed the unresponsive com board. Desus had disabled the system so thoroughly that even Nyota would be challenged to repair it. Thinking of her, Spock repressed a sigh. "We will be leading an attack directly to the _Enterprise_. Without communications, we will be mistaken as the spearhead of an invasion force." There remained only one hope, but it was not beyond the ability of a quick-thinking human like Kirk.

oooo

The door to the captain's quarters slid open without courtesies. Kirk did not even bother to glance up from his bunk, where he lay brooding. There was only one person who ever entered that way.

"Bones," he said.

Leonard McCoy came over and stood beside him. "It's the not knowing, isn't it? Whether they're dead or alive or…"

"And not being able to do a damn thing about it." Due to the vast distances involved, communications with Starfleet Command was slow, and the ongoing dialogue frustrating. _Keep your position,_ they said. _Uphold the treaty_. _Do not enter the Neutral Zone for any reason whatsoever._

McCoy's shoulders slumped as he admitted, "I never thought I'd miss him so much."

A surge of frustration sent Kirk to his feet. "Missing Spock won't save him… _or_ the others. You can spend your time writing eulogies, but I…" His voice failed.

"Jim." The doctor spoke quietly. "There really is nothing you can do."

Kirk was ramming a fist into his palm when the intercom whistled. Hurrying over, he pressed the switch and said, "Kirk here."

It was Sulu. "Captain, long range scanners detect concentrated activity in the Neutral Zone. Three vessels, all bearing this direction at warp speed."

Kirk looked at McCoy. "Red alert. I'm on my way."

Amid the clamor of battle stations, Kirk strode onto the bridge. "Report, Mister Sulu!"

Sulu rose from the command chair and headed back toward the helm. "They're about to breech Federation space. One vessel well in the lead."

Kirk frowned at the field of stars on the main view screen. "Poor battle tactics…or some devilishly clever trap." He hardly dared to acknowledge a third possibility, even to himself.

A distant Romulan ship appeared on the screen.

Chekov said, "Deflector shields at full power, Keptin. Torpedoes ready. Phaser banks charged."

"Penetrating Federation space in sixty seconds," Sulu informed him.

"Uhura." Kirk half-turned to the communications officer. "Open all hailing frequencies."

Uhura's slender fingers danced over her console. "Ready, sir."

Focusing on the screen, Kirk announced, "This is Captain James T. Kirk of the Federation starship _Enterprise_ …"

"They've breeched," Sulu reported. "Ship still heading this way, warp five."

Kirk continued. "You are in treaty violation."

Uhura cast him a worried look. "Nothing, sir."

"Keep transmitting, Lieutenant. Warn them off."

"Captain." Sulu's voice was tense. "The lead ship has dropped from warp. Its shields are down, its weapons not armed. At…thirty-nine thousand kilometers, slowly approaching. Trailing ships now entering Federation space at warp speed."

Uhura spoke again. "Still no response, Captain."

Kirk watched the lead vessel move in slowly. Acting on the slimmest of hopes, he ordered, "Scan for Vulcan life signs."

At Spock's science station, a junior officer leaned over the sensor hood and fine-tuned its settings. She peered excitedly at the energy patterns. "Captain! Only three life forms—all Vulcan!"

Kirk's heart leaped. "Lower shields! Lock on and transport!"

Looking appalled, Sulu swiveled to face him. "But the Romulans…"

 _"Now!"_ Kirk's eyes were hard on the screen, and the shields were dropping.

The trailing Romulan ships dropped from warp and popped into view. Seconds later, their weapons streaked toward the Vulcans' ship and destroyed it.

Kirk instantly called, "Shields, Sulu!"

Uhura fingered her ear receptor. Her eyes lit and she flashed a bright smile. "Transporter room reports three onboard, sir—all safe. T'Sel, Seven…and Mister Spock."

There was no time for Kirk to savor his relief. In a shower of debris, the enemy dumped speed and surrounded the _Enterprise_. Kirk sank into his command chair and thinking fast, punched the intercom button. "Transporter room, beam our Vulcans back into the matrix and hold them there—quickly."

"…Sir?" came the confused response. Then, "Yes, sir!"

"Uhura, see if you can get the Romulans onscreen."

A larger-than-life alien male appeared. The darkly clad officer bellowed, "Starship commander! Think well before you fire on us. Your thieving first officer met the fate he deserved for his crimes against the Empire."

Kirk narrowed his eyes. "I ought to blast you out of existence!"

The Romulan seemed to enjoy Kirk's show of anger, but suddenly his cruel smile faded. "When we arrived, your shields momentarily dropped. Could it be that you transported Spock and his companions to the safety of your ship?"

Kirk stood. "Spock was more than my first officer; he was my friend. Are you trying to weasel out of a murder charge? See for yourself if they're here; go ahead, scan us."

Romulan sensors swept the ship and found nothing. Dark, triumphant eyes flamed from the forward screen. "My condolences, Captain. For now, our ships withdraw. Let it be known that Romulans always choose the path of peace."

Kirk's muttered farewell was not language fit for the bridge.

oooo

Sickbay was dead quiet when Kirk arrived with Uhura at his side. McCoy intercepted them and spoke in a guarded tone. "Jim, it's Spock. I'm going to need a little help removing his…uh…jewelry."

"Jewelry?" Kirk said in disbelief. "Spock?"

McCoy led them to an examination room where all three Vulcans were gathered. Uhura went to Spock's side as he rose from a diagnostic table. Dressed in his captor's clothing, he could almost pass for a Romulan. Kirk noted the facial bruise and a bandage on Spock's right hand. Then a glitter at the Vulcan's neck caught his attention. Until now he had only heard of Romulan slave collars.

With an effort, he forced himself to meet the eyes of his dignified second-in-command and smile as he said, "Spock. Out of uniform?"

"Not by choice," Spock replied before drawing a slow breath. "Captain. I…had the opportunity to take prisoners, but chose not to."

"Wise move," Kirk replied. "It would only have complicated matters."

Stone-faced, Spock declared, "Sub-commanders Charvon and Desus were among them. We were taken to Hellguard."

Kirk nodded with fresh understanding. Those two Romulans had personal vendettas against Spock.

"Captain," Seven interjected, "you should know that Mister Spock singlehandedly engineered our escape."

"Singlehandedly?" Kirk glanced at Spock's bandage and smiled at the unintended pun.

"Yes sir," T'Sel added in all seriousness, "under most trying circumstances. He surely deserves a commendation."

As Spock's slanted brow rose, Uhura slipped her arm through his, and their eyes met in a brief but intimate gaze.

Kirk studied each Vulcan in turn, suspecting that he would never know all the private details of their adventure, however thorough the debriefing. Meanwhile, the links of enslavement glimmered at Spock's throat like shards of ice.

Thumbing the wall intercom, Kirk said, "Scotty, we're going to need a fine cutting tool…"

oooOOooo


End file.
